Hunted By Zkari (Alien Mate Hunt #2)

Zia

The pen weighs nothing, but my hand trembles anyway.

Not fear. Fear got beaten out of me in basic training fifteen years ago.

This is rage, pure and focused, at the corner they've backed me into.

Sign these papers and become alien prey, or face court-martial for Cairo.

Watch eight families lose death benefits because someone wanted my squad dead and made me the scapegoat.

“Ms. Reeves.” The intake coordinator's voice cuts through recycled air that tastes of industrial cleaner and desperation. Her tablet glows, reflecting off dead eyes that have processed too many women to care about one more. “You need to initial all twenty-three boxes.”

Twenty-three ways to agree to be hunted. Twenty-three variations of understanding that Earth law ends at the portal.

I scan the contract. Military habits die hard, and I've never signed anything without reading it. Even when the choice is already made.

Initial here to acknowledge participation in the Cultural Exchange Initiative is voluntary.

Voluntary. The word sits bitter on my tongue. The alternative is military prison and eight families destroyed. Hadad has three kids. Kowalczyk's wife is pregnant. Their death benefits depend on me taking this deal.

Z.R.

Initial here to understand that Vorthak hunters utilize psychological dominance techniques including but not limited to catch-and-release methodology.

The briefing video plays on repeat on the waiting room screens.

Jungle world, constant humidity, predators that hunt minds before bodies.

The Vorthak hunters don't just chase. They catch their prey, establish dominance, then release.

Repeat until the prey begs to be kept. Ninety-two percent success rate, meaning ninety-two percent of women never come back through the portal.

Z.R.

Initial here to acknowledge the preparation tonic will create permanent physiological changes designed to ensure species compatibility.

Permanent. No going back. Even if I survive thirty days and make it to the portal, my body will never be the same. Always aware of what's missing. Always craving what Earth can't provide.

But Kowalczyk's unborn kid deserves a father who died a hero, not a failure.

Z.R.

The coordinator watches me with professional boredom. We're just credits to her. Resources being traded for technology that keeps Earth's cities running. Everyone pretends it's voluntary exchange. Cultural sharing. Not selling women to aliens to keep the lights on.

“The tonic causes immediate onset,” she says when I pause at clause fifteen. “Most subjects experience symptoms within minutes.”

“Symptoms?”

“Heightened sensitivity. Increased production of... various fluids. Hyperfocus on reproductive readiness.” She taps through practiced motions on her tablet. “Your body will interpret most stimuli as sexual after ingestion.”

“For thirty days?”

“Permanently. Though intensity decreases without exposure to compatible pheromones.”

My jaw clenches hard enough to hurt. They're rewiring my body at the cellular level. Making me into something that craves what only they can provide. But eight families need those death benefits. Eight families who trusted me to bring their soldiers home.

I sign the rest in silence. Z.R. twenty-three times, each one another piece of autonomy traded for others' survival.

“Medical bay, down the hall. Third door.”

The medical bay reeks of antiseptic trying to cover something sweeter. Three other women wait in curtained cubicles. One rocks slowly, arms wrapped around her midsection. Another stares at nothing, pupils already dilated. The third whispers in Portuguese, maybe prayers, maybe curses.

“Behind your left ear.” The tech doesn't look up from his prep. “Neural implant for translation. Three seconds.”

The injection gun presses cold against my skull. Then fire races along every nerve, followed by ice, then electric sensation that makes my teeth ache. The world splits into parallel tracks. English layered with something else. Grinding sounds, clicks, harmonics that human throats can't produce.

“Test phrase,” he says, but I also hear: “ Vekta nu sharak? “

Both languages. Simultaneous understanding that makes my brain itch.

“I understand both.”

“ Nu sharak .” The response comes out in their language before I can stop it.

He nods, already turning away. “Prep room. Last door.”

The prep room is white walls, white floor, drain in the center that makes my stomach clench. Clinical. Sterile. A room designed for transformation.

The tonic arrives in a sealed vial. The liquid inside moves wrong, too thick, opalescent sheen shifting like oil on water. When the tech opens it, the smell hits immediately. Copper and ozone and something musky that makes my body respond before my mind catches up.

“Drink it all at once.”

The taste burns. Not heat but something alive, spreading through my system like invasive vine.

My skin prickles immediately, every nerve suddenly aware of everything touching it.

The rough fabric of my tactical pants. The sports bra that's suddenly too tight.

The air itself moving across exposed skin.

Heat pools low in my belly, insistent and demanding. My nipples harden into painful points, the fabric torture against oversensitive flesh. Between my legs, warmth spreads and wetness begins. Not normal arousal but something aggressive, something hungry.

“Normal response,” the tech says, already backing toward the door. “Portal room in two minutes.”

My legs shake when I stand. Every step creates friction that shoots straight to my core. The seam of my tactical pants presses against flesh that's suddenly swollen, sensitive. I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, using pain to focus through the chemical storm in my veins.

The portal room is industrial concrete and alien technology.

The portal itself shimmers like heat distortion, a perfect circle of elsewhere.

Through it, I can see jungle. Green so dense it looks black in places.

Steam rising from vegetation. Trees taller than buildings draped in vines thick as my arms.

Vorthak.

Two other women stand at their own portals. One strips off her shirt before stepping through, already lost to the tonic's demands. The other falls to her knees, dry heaving from intensity.

I force myself to assess. Dense canopy means limited visibility. Undergrowth will slow movement. The humidity visible in the air means temperatures over ninety degrees. My body is already compromised by the tonic, systems diverted to reproduction instead of survival.

But I've operated in worse conditions. Afghanistan in summer. Somalia during the rains. This is just another mission. Survive thirty days. Make it back to the portal. Clear my record and secure the benefits.

Something moves in the shadows beyond the portal. Large. Patient. Already watching.

My hand goes to the knife at my belt, muscle memory from a hundred missions. Then I step through.

The humidity is a physical weight. Ninety degrees at least, air so thick with moisture my lungs struggle to process it. My clothes soak through instantly, clinging to skin that's already too sensitive. The wet fabric drags across my nipples, sending signals that convert directly to need.

The portal snaps shut behind me. No sound, just suddenly gone. I'm alone in alien jungle with a body that's betraying me more with each second.

First priority: establish position.

The ground squishes underfoot. Not mud but moss that releases spores when disturbed. They smell sweet, almost floral, but underneath is something else. Male. Musk. Territory marked so thoroughly the scent has soaked into the earth itself.

My body responds instantly. A fresh flood of wetness joins what's already soaking through my pants. Internal muscles clench on nothing, seeking something to grip. My hips roll involuntarily, seeking pressure that won't be enough.

Stop. Compartmentalize. Mission focus.

I force myself to move, scanning for immediate threats. The “gifts” are exactly where the briefing said they'd be. Water in a gourd that looks grown rather than made. Fruit with purple-black skin. Cooked meat wrapped in leaves. And most interesting, a blade knapped from volcanic glass.

I circle them twice. No tripwires. No pressure plates. But that doesn't mean safe. These are tests. Everything here is a test.

The smart move is to leave them, but dehydration will kill me faster than any hunter. I take the water, leaving the rest. Let him know I'm not stupid enough to trust completely.

The jungle presses in from all sides. Every surface drips with moisture. The canopy blocks most light, creating perpetual twilight at ground level. Things move in the shadows. Some small, scurrying. Others large enough to shake branches thirty feet up.

I need shelter before dark. Defensive position. Sight lines.

There's a game trail. Too convenient, probably deliberately maintained. But staying in the open is worse. I follow it, marking trees with my knife every ten meters. Basic navigation that also serves as communication. I'm methodical. Disciplined.

The trail leads upward to a cluster of massive trees. Their roots create natural hollows large enough to shelter in. I choose one with three exits and clear firing lines.

By the time I've secured basic shelter, the tonic has progressed from demanding to screaming. My inner thighs are slick despite my attempts to ignore it. Every breath makes my breasts ache. The hollow ache between my legs has become actual pain, cramping emptiness that makes me double over.

Night falls fast. Within an hour, the jungle transforms. Phosphorescent organisms create paths of blue-green light. Night sounds rise: chirring insects, distant howls, something dying violently to the south.

I strip off my soaked shirt. The fabric is torture against my skin, and modesty is pointless when everything here can smell my arousal from kilometers away. The night air on my bare breasts makes me gasp, nipples tightening further.

My hand drifts between my legs without conscious thought. Even through the wet fabric, I can feel how swollen I am. How ready. But my own touch brings no relief. If anything, it makes the ache worse. My body has been programmed to need something specific. Something only they can provide.

I try anyway. Fingers pressing through fabric, seeking the relief that won't come. My hips rock desperately, grinding against my own hand. The tree bark is rough against my back as I arch, chasing sensation that stays just out of reach.

A sound escapes me. Frustrated. Desperate. Animal.

Something responds from the darkness. Not quite a call. More like acknowledgment. He's out there. Watching. Waiting for the tonic to do his work for him.

I force my hand away, biting my lip until the pain overrides the need. For now.

The night stretches ahead. No sleep will come, not with my body like this. Every nerve firing, every cell screaming for what it's been programmed to crave. The moss beneath me is soft, and I find myself grinding against it, hips moving without permission.

Another wave hits, so intense my vision whites out. My back arches completely off the ground. Internal muscles spasm, clenching rhythmically on nothing. When it passes, I'm sobbing. Not from fear or anger but from pure frustrated need.

Twenty-nine days, twenty-three hours to go.

My body won't last that long. Not like this.

But I've survived worse. Kandahar when my unit was pinned down for sixty hours. Somalia when the extraction failed. Cairo when the building came down.

I can survive this.

Even if my body screams otherwise with every breath.

The watcher in the darkness shifts position. I can't see him, but I feel his presence like atmospheric pressure. Patient. Confident. He knows what the tonic is doing to me. Knows time is on his side.

But he doesn't know I've been trained to function through pain. Through distraction. Through everything the enemy can throw at me.

I'm not just another desperate woman dropped into his territory.

I'm a soldier.

And soldiers adapt.

My hands shake as I update my mental map. The portal site is my zero point. This shelter is approximately two hundred meters northeast, thirty meters elevation. Tomorrow I'll expand my reconnaissance. Find water sources. Identify threats. Build contingencies.

Another wave of need crashes through me. This time I don't fight it, just ride it out, letting my body convulse while my mind stays separate. Observing. Learning the patterns.

The tonic creates waves approximately every twenty minutes. Each one lasts between thirty seconds and two minutes. Between waves, I can function. During waves, I'm helpless.

Information. Data. Variables to factor into planning.

Something large moves through the underbrush to the east. Not him, the gait is wrong. Four legs, possibly six. It sniffs around my shelter then moves on. Whatever marks this territory is stronger than my human scent.

His marks. His protection, even though I haven't seen him yet.

The game has rules. Boundaries. He's not just a mindless predator. He's something more complex.

I can work with complex.

My body clenches again, hard enough to hurt. The empty ache has become a constant companion, baseline pain that spikes into agony during waves. My pussy is so swollen that sitting certain ways creates pressure that nearly makes me scream.

But pain is information. Discomfort is data.

I catalog it all while the jungle watches and waits.

Dawn can't come soon enough.

But when it does, the real game begins.

The hunter and the hunted.

Except I'm not sure which one I'm supposed to be anymore.

The thought should terrify me.

Instead, it makes me bare my teeth in something that isn't quite a smile.

Let him come.

I'll be ready.

Even if my traitorous body is ready for something else entirely.